Saturday, February 7, 2009

Note:we, the good people ofEt Tu, Mr. Destructo?, like to broaden our coverage of the national discourse by occasionally turning to voices and viewpoints not represented by our regular contributors. To discuss the Obama administration's proposed bailout and his own stimulus package, this week we turn to a noted economist and former chairman of the federal reserve.

I Used to Fuck the Shit Outta Ayn Randby ALAN GREENSPAN

I've shunned the public eye since October when I testified before congress that I'd found a flaw in the free market capitalist model: “I made a mistake in presuming that the self-interest of organizations, specifically banks and others, was such that they were best capable of protecting their own shareholders and the equity.”

With one careless admission, I tore down the foundational principle of the libertarianism I've always believed in: that rational economic actors would check present greed to ensure stability in the future. I realized that, in a sense, I had screwed libertarianism and the objectivism of my youth with one line. Which, later, was funny to me, because even back then I used to fuck the shit outta Ayn Rand.It started out like it did with other men in The Collective. One day we were alone in her apartment on 30th avenue, and she walked to a corner of the room behind a Chinese screen to which she'd tastelessly nailed some rough wooden boards. "Oooohhh!" she said, "I em your quarry!" This was the cue for a young man of The Collective to surprise her in the "shed" and take her with his mighty roark. Often the act could not prove satisfying for her without heightening the simulation of rape. I was told once by one gentleman to beat her with my palm.

"What is this?" I roared, raining blows down upon her buttocks.

"ZEE INVEESEEBLE HAND!" she'd cry, climaxing.

Afterward, the smell of sex on her, she'd demand hangers-on return to her sitting room to perhaps be intimidated by her odor. Meanwhile, she would assert her dominance of the conquering/now-conquered male by engaging in humiliating public pillow talk. "Who ees John Balled?" she'd ask. "I am," one was forced to reply.

Needless to say, it was easy for even a young man of robust appetites to tire of fakeraping Ayn. The smoking played no small part. Hoovering two packs per day, coupled with the spaces between her teeth, made all but her incisors look like small bits of rotted toffee that a cruel — but nonexistent — God had contrived to nail permanently in her gums. The lingering tobacco smell, too, had something nearly mephitic about it, like someone had figured out how to burn a ghost to death. I soon learned to try to use my force of will to restrict our intercourse to the strictly manual. "Demand pull, Ayn," I would say, indicating her hand and my groin. "Demand has outpaced supply, leading to this inflation." Then I would do three crotch-chops and demonstrate karate.

I forgot about all this for decades, after I had effectively broken from the group, but it came rushing back during her funeral in 1982. I remember standing there at the gravesite and looking to the left of the floral arrangement shaped into a six-foot dollar sign and down at the dirt hole in the ground that she lay in. And I thought, "I use to lay her in her dirthole—with my dick."

Eventually tiring of my distance, Ayn renewed her commitment to quarrape. First, she refused to sanction my thinking about other women while being manually stimulated. Second, she resorted to threat. One day, while I was fully engorged, she stated that, having created this magnificent erection, she had the right to destroy it, lest its use be perverted. I took the hint.

Not even the titillation of violence could preserve my interest for long, however. There, behind the screen, I checked her premises and withdrew my pump-primed Rearden Steel from her liquidity trap and placed its head at the puckered entrance of her toohey.

"No!" She said. "Eet is not right!"

"You're being evasive," I said. "After all, was it not you who taught me that A is A?" I did not wait for a reply, but instead went straight to it.

She shrieked at first, but it was giffen good, and she soon relaxed and was taking the full ball-deep length of the Alan Peenspan. It did not take long for me to reach an irrational exuberance. "I'm about to Peikoff!" I shouted, announcing my liquidity injection. My gross dick product deflated, I looked at what remained of my work. The word "frothy" comes to mind. Also, perhaps because of her age, perhaps because she smoked so many cigarettes or took a poor diet, I can say with confidence that I objectively fucked the shit outta her.

She left me alone after that. Except when she was drunk.

Four decades later, I helped collapse the global economy. Also frothy.

Et tu, Mr. Destructo? is a politics, sports and media blog whose purpose is to tell jokes or be really right about things. All of us have real jobs and don't need the hassle that telling jokes here might occasion, which is why some contributors find it more tasteful to pretend to be dead mass murderers.